


Home

by Jackidy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: APH Yuri Week 2015, F/F, Nyotalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4027504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackidy/pseuds/Jackidy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is a difficult thing for her to place, but she’s pretty sure it’s neither this building or the nation she is the embodiment of. She’s pretty sure it’s the New Zealander. For the APH Yuri Week 2015, Day 4 Prompt: Hame/Warmth</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

Home is a difficult thing for her to place. It could be the expanses of land that she embodied, scorching, venomous and barren yet alive on the outskirts, bustling with people and the fresh ocean breeze, it could be the house in which she resides, located in a city suburb, magnet for wildlife and trouble, curtsey of her youngest, the trouble maker that he was.

But then home could be New Zealand.

She’d been told as a child that home was where the heart is, which could only mean her home was not on her lands but in another’s all together, a somewhat cheesy explanation for the homesickness she felt every now and again when she missed the Polynesian most.

Home was wide green eyes, a face framed with curly brown hair and a splattering of freckles along cushioned cheek bones that would carry hues of pink and red when compliments and sweet words were mumbled into her ears. It was also pink lips that stretched into smiles and grins, smug little smirks when the Kiwi felt nobody was watching and begged to be kissed even when pressed into a thin line whenever a frown was directed at the Australian.

For her, home is the fights, rare as they were but also volatile, the hours of silence that follows afterwards before the sobbing apologies, coming to understandings with each other and the way cracks were not just fixed but re-enforced, foundations made stronger and mistakes learnt from.

It’s the moments together on the sofa when the children are asleep, when the kiwi is sleeping on the sofa in her arms and she dare not wake her in case she can’t get to sleep again later, it’s the breakfast in bed, the gesture of using vegemite as opposed to marmite, the smell of fern trees and mint, the out of tune humming along to the radio when the New Zealander thought she was alone.

Home is wool jumpers and cardigans; it’s a muddy pair of red wellingtons and tattered jeans. It’s the soft flesh beneath them, faint markings and dark moles, small breasts, love handles and massive thighs, the private moments together when he mouth would explore the other’s skin, the trail of red marks and the pleasured little noises that left swollen lips.

Bickering during rugby matches, aspirated sighs when Wy gets away with murder again, the phone calls that resulted in large bills and England’s titters at the public displays of affection that left the Kiwi flustered and annoyed more often than not.

It’s the feeling she gets when she wakes up to the other still beside her, a small arm around her waist and heavy breathing ticking her shoulder blades, it’s the noise of complaint when she tries to get out of bed and a lack of attempt to stop her when she eventually does.

She knows New Zealand is home because, when she wakes up alone, the other side of the bed stone cold like it had been the nights before now and with the smell of nothing but the stale air of her bedroom, Australia finds she has never felt more homesick than she does then.


End file.
